Stand
Jory fell again. The long room was airy, with white walls and smooth, pale yellow pine floorboards. Along one side, floor-to-ceiling windows exposed the tidy patio and carefully tended gardens beyond it, and let the bright spring light inundate the space like a gentle flood. A chorus of birdsong from the garden, and the wooded valley that it led to, drifted gently in through the wide glass doors. The serenity was momentarily broken as the SPARTAN let out a long, guttural groan. This is pathetic. Exercise balls, weighted straps, harnesses and racks of kettle bells cluttered the fringes of the room. In the far corner, an L-shaped mock staircase– three steps up, three steps down– stood looking slightly out of place, its banisters leading nowhere in particular. On the floor, coloured lines marked the routes along which one could walk without fear of falling, harnessed and suspended from the rails that traced the ceiling above. A pair of long parallel bars, about waist high, ran through the centre of the room. Halfway along it Jory-050 was knelt, mechanical knees touching the ground, arms running along the rails, knuckles blanched from the iron grip he held on with. "No!" the SPARTAN snapped as one of the physiotherapists made to help him up. "No more help," he said more quietly, as she returned to her seat. "I need to start doing this." The physio joined two other figures, watching on. One, another physio sat, waiting with 050's wheelchair. The other, who stood with his arms folded, was taller than the others, and dressed in Navy uniform. 050 heard them exchange soft words. He hadn't meant to snap– the rehabilitation staff were brilliant. It was himself he was frustrated with, his own weakness and his own shattered body. C'mon. You can do this. Jory pushed himself up, his arms taking the combined weight of his body and the spindly, temporary prosthetic legs that attached to it. He locked his arms out, floating in mid-air between the bars, and gingerly placed the prosthetic feet flat on the ground. It seemed so far down. With a bit of effort, he got both level and steady, and uneasily released his hands. He froze. "That's it, try again," one of the kindly-faced physios said. "I'll fall again," he said in frustration, recognising fear in his own voice. It was so unfamiliar that he thought for a moment it was someone else speaking. What kind of SPARTAN was he? He couldn't even take one step without hesitating. I'm a joke. "Well, yes, maybe you'll fall," the physio replied. "We all fall some time, Jory, legs or no legs. What matters most is that you can get back up again, and take another step." He let out a snort. "That's bullshit." She raised her eyebrows. "Of course it's bullshit. But my bullshit works. Now come on, get going and stop being a drama queen. Get this nailed, then we can move to the track and harness." Jory looked down at the mechanical feet, six feet below him. One mistake shifting his weight and one of his microprocessor knees might think he was stepping and give way. He didn't trust these things they'd bolted onto what remained of his legs. There were more advanced prosthetics that would link to his neural interface and obey his every thought, but before he could get those, he had to master his own balance on these glorified stilts. He took one step, gingerly lifting the foot far below him, inching it forward and placing it down. He shifted his weight forward cautiously. How can I be a SPARTAN if I can't even walk? The previous day, Jory had been wheelchair-racing a Marine who'd also lost both legs down the corridors, before they'd both received a sharp rebuke from a nurse. He thought the Marine had looked like shit, until he caught sight of himself in a mirror and remembered what his injury and being stuck in rehab had done to him. He'd forgotten how much weight he'd lost lying in that hospital bed. He was even paler than usual and his cheeks were sallow and sunken. And where previously Jory had two athletic, healthy, SPARTANS' legs, now there were only short stumps and traitorous prosthetics. If he was honest, he couldn't bear the sight of himself most of the time. He took another, careful step, and a second. He suddenly realised that he didn't know how to turn around once he got to the end of the parallel bars, but that problem that could wait. He took another step forward with his left leg, shifted his weight– too fast– and his right knee buckled under him. He crashed to the floor in a heap, swearing. "That's good, Jory, you're doing really well," said the gently smiling physio. "Now keep going." What kind of SPARTAN are you, Jory? He hated this. Twenty years of being a supersoldier was poor practice for being bad at something. Now he couldn't even place one foot in front of another without collapsing. He had no control over his own body. 050 swore profusely and resisted the urge to punch the wooden floor. The physios said his indentations from the previous times were causing trip hazards. He tried to haul himself onto his feet again, but his strength failed him. Jory shut his eyes, exhaling deeply. I can't do this. I'm broken. The Navy man muttered something to the physios, who quietly departed. He walked around the bars, moving into Jory's view like a circling shark. "It's good to see you looking better, Jory," the man said. "I hope that's a joke, Sir," Jory replied. Lieutenant Commander Clausen had been keeping tabs on him periodically for his whole recovery. "Seeing as I am literally on my knees right now." "Small steps, Jory, both physically and metaphorically. In both senses you'll be on your feet again before you know it." As if to prove a point, 050 steeled himself and pushed hard, heaving himself into the air between the bars, and settled his stilt-legs on the floorboards. "You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little cynical, Sir," he said, catching his breath. "You're just my handler, you're only counting down the days until you can deploy me again." "Do you want to be deployed again?" Jory was caught by surprise. His eyes narrowed. LCDR Clausen knew the answer to that. What he was really asking was do you think we'll ever want to deploy you again? "What kind of question is that?" he accused. Clausen paused, mulling something over. "Jory, we've found a training role we think would be right for you once you've recovered." Jory's face contorted in fury, but the handler carried on. " If you accept, you'll be able to make a difference there." "Get fucked." Clausen ignored him, pulling a data pad out of his breast pocket and presenting it. "It's all highly classified. They're SPARTANs, but not as you know them. He walked back to the door, behind Jory, placing the pad down on his wheelchair. He turned to face the SPARTAN's back. Jory craned his head but couldn't see behind him. He was stuck facing away and didn't know how to turn. He shifted an arm so they were both on the same bar but stumbled and froze, paralysed. Clausen turned the door handle. "We both know even SPARTANs can't cheat death forever, Jory. Think of this as ONI deciding you're worth saving." "Sir. I need to fight. I'm a SPARTAN, it's all I am." He twisted his torso and pushed off the short lengths of his legs that he had control over, but his prosthetics gave way and splayed apart under Jory's bulk. He only half-caught himself as he landed hard on the floor. "You've been pushing yourself too hard, Jory. I know you want to get back to the action but..." he trailed off, and pulled open the door. "You can help the war in other ways. If we can't get you back in the field, you'll take a different path. This," he said, pointing at the data pad, "is a good path to take." He stepped out, and the physios re-entered. Jory was stationary, piled on top of himself in a heap. So that was it. He'd never fight again. You're not a SPARTAN any more. Category:The Weekly Category:The Weekly Winners